The Most Wonderful Time

by Fern Michaels

  One way or another, he was going to move forward with the plan for a Christmas party. Something fun that would fill the old house the way it had been in generations past.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because your father is dead, and your life has changed.”

  “Again. It’s changed again, and I’m fine with that. I’ve known since I moved back to Apple Valley that I’d be leaving one day. As soon as I can sell the house and get rid of everything in it, I’m out of here.” She said it as if she meant it, but her hand was still on the carved banister, her face still soft with whatever she’d been remembering.

  “Then I’ll move forward with the party. The more interest you have in the place, the more quickly you can unload it. We’ll plan it for after Christmas Eve service, let it run until midnight.”

  “A party sounds like a lot of work. Couldn’t we just advertise in local papers? Contact Realtors in other towns? Maybe bring some things to antique stores and see what we can get for them?”

  “You don’t think that sounds like a lot of work?” he asked, and she smiled.

  “I guess it does, but I don’t need you to handle all this for me.”

  “Adam needs me to,” he responded.

  “You know I can’t argue when you bring my brother up.”

  “Exactly.” He continued down the stairs. He thought she’d follow. Instead, he heard her walking away.

  A door opened and then closed, and the house fell silent. Or as silent as an old house could get. The stairs creaked beneath his feet, the wind howled beneath the eaves. Somewhere, the old furnace was cranking on, the radiators clicking in response. The fire he’d banked in the parlor still tinged the air with the scent of wood and flames. It reminded him of his childhood, the times he’d spent with his grandfather on the old farmstead in New Hampshire. Granddad Jimmy had come from nothing, and he’d always wanted to remember that.

  At least, that’s what he’d told Jack and his brother when they’d complained about the cold floor or the drafty windows.

  “It’s good to remember where you’ve come from. Otherwise, you might find yourself back where you don’t want to be.”

  True.

  Most of the time, Jack had no desire to go back, revisit the places he’d been, the years he’d lived. Most of the time, he could do exactly what his grandfather had recommended—remember the past and be happy for the present.

  Right now, though, with the taste of Emma’s lips still on his, he couldn’t help thinking he’d like a second chance at making things work with her.

  Chapter Six

  Christmas had exploded all over the house.

  Emma didn’t know how. She didn’t know why. But the evidence was right there, waiting at the end of the driveway when she got home from her first day of work since her father’s stroke. Icicle-lights hung from the eaves. Wreaths hung in the windows. Another one hung on the front door. Christmas greenery had been draped over the porch railing and woven around the banister. Tiny white lights twinkled from the garland. More lights sparkled in the bushes that abutted the façade of the house. As if that weren’t enough, there was a Christmas tree in the parlor. She could see it through the window.

  Jack.

  It had to be him.

  No one else would have dared. Not even the well-meaning church ladies who’d been worrying about her spending Christmas alone. Not Emma’s coworkers either, and they were the only ones who’d known that she planned to return to work. Three days after the funeral had seemed too soon to everyone except for Emma. She’d been ready to get out of the house, away from the memories, and, maybe, away from Jack.

  One kiss, and everything she’d thought she’d understood about their relationship had been replaced by something she could only call longing. For what, she couldn’t quite figure out. She didn’t need a man in her life. She didn’t want one. She’d spent years nursing a guy who gave nothing to anyone. That had sealed her desire to go it alone, but for the past three mornings, she’d woken up to the smell of coffee, the sound of silverware clinking in the sink, the feel of togetherness where there’d only been emptiness before. As if the house had suddenly begun to live again, and—she hated to admit it even to herself—she’d begun to live with it.

  And now . . .

  Christmas.

  Staring her right in the face, defying everything she believed about the season, because the display wasn’t gaudy. It wasn’t over the top. It was simple and lovely and old-fashioned. Like a postcard from a bygone era or a Christmas card that came in a boxed set and had pretty little phrases about hope and renewal and love scrawled across the front.

  The front door opened, and Jack stepped outside, a young woman beside him bundled up in a coat and hood and gloves. Emma’s heart dropped, all the ooey-gooey feelings she’d been having gone as quickly as they’d come.

  She got out of her father’s SUV, pushing aside the strange hollow feeling that was filling her stomach.

  “Emma,” the woman called, the voice one Emma knew immediately. Tessa Cunningham. Her boss’s wife and Emma’s good friend. One of the few people who’d been able to put up with Daniel for any length of time, Tessa had visited every few weeks, helping Emma with whatever big project needed to be done around the house.

  “Tess! What a great surprise!” Emma replied, running toward her, the hollow feeling gone because Tessa was Tessa. Not some new or old flame of Jack’s.

  Idiot, Emma’s brain whispered, because she’d been jealous.

  Jealous!

  “A better surprise than me finding out you were going back to work today. When Cade told me that, I nearly bit his head off,” Tessa said as Emma jogged up the porch stairs. “I couldn’t believe he let you show up.”

  “He told me to take another few days, but I . . . needed some normalcy.” Whatever that was. She pulled Tessa into a hug and did everything in her power to avoid Jack’s gaze.

  Somehow, he was there anyway. Right in her line of sight. He had no coat, no hood, no boots or gloves.

  “You’re going to freeze,” she found herself saying.

  “It’s good to know you care,” he responded.

  “I don’t,” she lied, and he laughed.

  “Well,” Tessa broke in. “Isn’t this interesting.”

  “No,” Emma said at the same exact moment that Jack said yes.

  Tessa grinned. “Here comes my ride. Right on time.” She waved as the sheriff’s car pulled into the driveway. “I’ll leave you two to work out who cares about who, and I’ll be back tomorrow with some fabric samples.”

  “Fabric samples for what?” Emma wanted to know, but Tessa was gone, and the only one left to answer was Jack.

  “Drapes for the parlor and living room. The dining room has what I think are original. Or pretty close. I thought maybe I could find the ones for the other rooms, but I’ve been through every box in the attic, and they’re not there.”

  “What’s wrong with the drapes that are hanging?”

  “Nothing, but they don’t fit.”

  “Fit what?” She walked inside, felt the warmth of the house, inhaled cinnamon and pine and memories. The house had smelled like this an aeon ago. It had also rung with the laughter and giggles and teenage drama. Until her father got home from work. Then it had gone silent. Everyone scurrying to his or her room.

  She shook the memories away, her fingers gliding over the garland that had been twined around the stair railing. Real pine. Real holly. Real everything.

  “They don’t fit the house,” Jack said. “You want to bring it back to its original state, right?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  Or, maybe, she had. She’d poured over Annabelle’s old photo cache. She’d been to the historical society. She’d seen the original blueprints drawn up by the architect. She’d even copied newspaper articles written when the house was being constructed and added them to Annabelle’s things.

 
She’d told herself that she was doing it to avoid Daniel, but she’d admit that she’d been fascinated. The house that she’d grown up in was way more than a hiding place from her father’s rage. It was a heritage.

  One that she’d be selling as soon as she could get it on the market and find a buyer.

  “I need to call a Realtor,” she murmured, more to herself than to Jack.

  “I’ve got three coming to the party.”

  “The party . . .” She’d been trying not to think about that, trying not to imagine a bunch of gawkers coming to see all the things her family had accumulated over the years. “About that . . .”

  “No,” he said, and she turned to meet his eyes.

  He was close. Closer than she’d expected, his dark green eyes nearly black, his jaw covered in a week’s worth of stubble. Not really stubble anymore. He was growing a bona fide beard and mustache, and man! Did he ever wear it well!

  “What do you mean ‘no’?”

  “I mean, we’re not canceling the party.”

  “Who said I planned to cancel?”

  “You’ve been thinking about it.”

  “Maybe.”

  * * *

  There was no maybe about it. Jack had seen the look on her face when she’d walked into the house. She’d looked surprised and a little uncomfortable. He couldn’t blame her. He’d been moving quickly, lining things up, making calls, pulling boxes out of the attic, itemizing, organizing. All the things he did every time he worked an estate.

  Only this wasn’t just anyone’s estate. This was Emma’s, and he thought he might be moving a little too fast for her. He also thought she was making a mistake letting the property go. If it had been his, he’d have kept it in the family. But then that’s the way he’d been raised. She seemed to have been raised with the idea that moving on was best, that letting go was what a person had to do.

  So he was helping her do what she thought she had to and maybe what she wanted to, but he didn’t want to force her into making decisions she wasn’t ready to make.

  “The party is just that, Em,” he said. “A way to celebrate this house and all the things that are in it. Yes, the by-product will be interest in the property and the antiques it contains, but we’re not going to auction things off until you’re ready to do it.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Yeah?” He moved closer, caught a hint of something flowery and light. Perfume? That hadn’t been Emma’s style before, but she’d changed since they’d dated. He’d been noticing it these past few days. She was quieter, more introverted, less excited about what each new day would bring.

  He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

  A little worried, maybe.

  Adam had said that the past few years had been tough on his sister, but he hadn’t mentioned how much they’d affected her. Jack could only assume that Adam didn’t know. He’d been deployed for six weeks, and as far as Jack had been able to figure, he hadn’t been to Apple Valley in years.

  “Yeah,” Emma responded, shrugging out of her coat and hanging it from the hook. She wore a soft yellow sweater and dark jeans. Both were a size too large for her. She’d left the house with her hair in a ponytail, but at some point during the day, she’d taken it out. Static made it stand out in a dozen different directions, and he smoothed it down, his palms gliding over the soft strands.

  She stilled, and he thought that if he wanted to, he could bend down, kiss her the way he had the first night he’d been in town.

  The thing was, he wanted to.

  It was possible he even needed to, but Emma needed something different. She needed him to listen to what she was trying to say, to hear the words that maybe she wasn’t capable of speaking. Like “I know what I thought I wanted, but I’m not sure if that’s changed, and there’s no way I’m going to admit it.”

  “Okay,” he said, his hand dropping to his sides.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Okay what?”

  “Okay. You’re ready. So, how about we take a look at the party invitations? I think you’ll like them.”

  “Does it matter if I don’t?” She sounded tired, and he knew she probably was. Near as he could tell, she’d barely slept the past few nights. He’d heard her pacing her room, the floorboards creaking under her feet. He’d thought about knocking on her door. He’d also thought about what might happen if she opened it. The last thing either of them needed was regrets, so he’d stayed away.

  “It matters,” he responded, taking her hand and leading her into the parlor. He didn’t bother turning on the light. He’d built a fire earlier in the day, and it was still burning, the pile of logs he’d carried in stacked in the fuel box beside it. He’d brought in a tree, too, driving around town until he’d found a tiny Christmas tree stand at the corner of Main Street. Twenty bucks for a nice-sized spruce.

  He could appreciate that the same way he’d appreciated the small-town vibe that Apple Valley offered. The place was a hidden gem. Sheltered in foothills of the Cascade Mountains, it had maintained all the charm of bygone eras and lost none of the homey feel of community.

  He’d have spent more time exploring, but his brother had been calling nonstop. They had two big auctions coming up, and Ace wanted to take on a third. Fine by Jack, but he wouldn’t be back to oversee any of them. He had a job to do here. Pro bono work, but it didn’t matter. He’d told Adam he’d take care of things, and he would. No matter how long it took.

  “Wow,” Emma breathed, standing in the center of the room, her face painted gold by the firelight.

  “You like it?”

  “It looks like . . .”

  “What?”

  “All the best things about Christmas. Family and comfort and hope.” She touched one of the ornaments he’d hung on the tree. “Were these all in the attic?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d forgotten how pretty they were. Mom got them out every year, and we all hung them together. Except for Dad. He sat in his office and grumbled.” She smiled, a mixture of happy memories and sad ones in her eyes. “I can’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve seen them.”

  “That’s a shame. I’m sure your mom would have wanted you to keep enjoying them after she was gone,” he said, because he imagined that the woman who’d influenced Adam and Emma to be the people they were had to have had a big heart.

  “Probably. Mom loved Christmas. She’d decorate the day after Thanksgiving, and the entire house would feel like a fairy tale. I’d sit on the couch in here, and I’d pretend that I lived in a home where the mother and father were always happy, and the kids . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she sighed. “That was a long time ago.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t still sit on the couch and pretend.” He led Emma to the couch and sat, pulling her down beside him.

  “Pretend what?” she said with a nervous laugh. “That I didn’t give up years of my life and any hope I had of ever practicing law to help a man who hated me?”

  “Still thinking about that dream?” he asked. She’d talked about family law a lot when they were dating, telling him over and over again how determined she was to become a lawyer.

  “Once in a while,” she responded.

  “You could still practice law,” he reminded her, and she sighed.

  “I’ve lost my momentum. I’d have to go back to school, finish my degree, take the bar exam. And right now, I don’t even know if I’d be happy doing it.”

  “Should I ask what you would be happy doing?”

  “Not unless you want to hear that I have absolutely no idea. I just know that I’m finally free of my responsibility, and that feels good and a little strange.”

  “You’re working at the sheriff’s department. Are you planning to continue?”

  “Like I’ve said, I’m planning to leave town as soon as I sell the house. Now, how about instead of playing twenty questions, you show me the invitations?” she responded.

  He’d left the box on the side table, and he took
one out, handing it to her. Elegant and simple, the lettering a calligraphy style that mimicked old cards he’d found in the attic, the postcard-style invitation had watercolor birds and holly decorating its edges.

  “What do you think?” he asked as she turned the card over and smiled at the old photo he’d had scanned onto it—a winter scene of the house, a sleigh waiting in front of it, two horses ready to take passengers on a winter adventure.

  “I think it’s perfect,” she said, handing it back and leaning her head against the high back of the couch. “The room is perfect. Even the tree that I should absolutely despise is perfect. All we need are some hand-knit stockings hung from the chimney with care.”

  He didn’t laugh. He was too busy looking into her eyes and thinking that they should have been doing this for the last six years. Sitting together. Talking. Sharing quiet evenings.

  “What?” she said, her hand going to her hair as if she thought he might be staring at a mess that could be fixed.

  And maybe he was.

  He’d made a mess of things their first go-round. She’d been young and filled with the kind of dreams most college students have. He’d been young, too, but he’d served in the military, he’d traveled the world, he’d been wounded, and he’d watched men die. All he’d dreamed about was returning home. He’d made it very clear that he wanted none of what Emma did. He didn’t need the excitement of the city. He didn’t want a high-stress career that would make him tons of money.

  He’d wanted peace. He’d longed for security, safety, the knowledge that he didn’t have to watch his back every second of every day.

  He hadn’t known how to tell her that.

  Or maybe he’d just been too proud to.

  Either way, he’d dug in his heels and refused to tell her the one thing she’d wanted to hear—that he was willing to think about living in the city. That, for her, he’d be willing to change his plans.